


Sentinel of Kirkwall

by jillyfae



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Dragon Age Character Alphabet Challenge, F/M, Friendship, POV Female Character, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-24 15:04:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 17,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2585789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never has a city needed protection from itself more than Kirkwall.</p><p>Aveline makes a good shield; usually literally. In this particular case, even she may not be enough. But she's certainly going to try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A is for Adelaide

Hawke was the only one who knew about the nightmares. 

Never mentioned them, not even a flicker of an eyelid, or the touch of a hand. But she understood. Family now, forged in death and flame. 

She helped Aveline to hide them, in the hold, taking turn and turn about to guard and watch amongst the refugees. 

Desperation made them dangerous, and any weakness would be exploited. 

No matter how loudly Aveline roared in her dreams, _this time I will save you, this time they will die, this time their jaws will break against my shield, this time they will not reach you, this time we will succeed, this time you will stay by my side, this time, this time, this time,_ she always woke in silence. 

Alone. 

Except for Hawke. A step away, balanced on her staff, her body still beyond the sway of the ship itself. 

Her eyes never stopped moving though. Looking behind each shadow, as if hoping to see her sister step out of one. 

Aveline did not permit herself to look for Wesley in the same way. She knew he wasn’t there, would never be there. She had killed him herself, after all, his blood stained beneath her skin. 

Hawke had been willing to spare her. But there was no sparing Wesley. What relief could there be, in watching him die under someone else’s hands? 

The cruelest cut of all, when your hand isn't on the blade. 


	2. B is for Bravery

Hawke sighed. Aveline tugged gently on the straps of Wesley’s…

_No. My shield, now._

Neither Aveline nor Hawke were good at waiting, even in pleasant circumstances.

The Gallows did not qualify as pleasant.

_I cannot imagine how much less so, for an apostate._

If Hawke had been anything less than family that thought would disturb, would itch down Aveline’s back, insisting to be recognized. She had always done her duty, first to her father, then to her country and her King. Had always believed in her husband and his duty, as well.

But above that, she’d always tried to do what was right.

Protecting Hawke felt right.

Hawke shifted against the stone, too impatient to sit, too tired to pace, too bored to do anything else after a day spent waiting. She sighed again, sounding rather like her mabari did when it got too hot, the hours after they’d finished what food there was for luncheon.

Aveline leaned back against stone, still warm from the sun, though the air was rapidly cooling with a breeze from the sea. She oddly felt the urge to smile. Not much, of course. But a hint of amusement, nonetheless, at how very young Hawke sounded. Just for a moment. As if she hadn’t withstood loss and darkspawn and _dragon witches_ and seasickness and refugee thugs and templars.

_Even mine. She stood up to him right well. Poor Wesley._

“You’re so patient.” Hawke refrained from sighing this time, her head leaning back against the wall. ”And so … stalwart. How do you do that?”

Aveline lifted a shoulder in half a shrug. ”Just put one foot in front of the other. That’s all anyone can do.”

“I think that’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen,” Hawke’s voice was soft, even softer than it had been a moment before. ”The way you keep going, and never blink.”

“Not much point in blinking. World’s still there when you open your eyes.”


	3. C is for Carver

Aveline was slightly horrified, the first time she watched Hawke and her younger brother argue.

They came to _blows_ over who had tied the tarpaulin the night before, water having dripped down all over their boots while they tried to sleep in the dank hold of the ship.

Not serious blows, of course, no magic from the apostate, the young warrior not using the full strength of his arms. But still. The slap of flesh, the growl of angry words.

And again the next day, over who had eaten the last roll for breakfast.

_Hawkes are not morning people._

She filed that observation away for later.

At first, she made allowances for grief. Anger simmered behind Carver’s eyes all the time, and it wasn’t difficult to feel for him. Ostagar, The Blight, the loss of his home, his mother clinging to memory and blame.

The death of his twin before his very eyes.

Hawke started to pull herself up though; watching the horizon, watching her family. Aveline was surprised to find herself among that number, in both their minds.

Hawke didn’t lose sight of the goal, when they landed in the Gallows to find all doors slammed shut before them.

She wasn’t afraid to ask for help to impress Athenril enough to open one of those doors.

Aveline rather enjoyed that part. Scaring selfish bastards into better behavior tended to be highly satisfying.

Hawke wasn’t thrilled at the sight of their new home, but she accepted it. Even snorted that short laugh of hers when Aveline pointed out that at least they had a roof.

Carver, though.

The darkness in his eyes only deepened.

Sympathy was met with scorn.

Briskness was met with snarled anger.

Anger was met with tense shoulders, and the smug conviction that he was right, that everyone was against him. _Just look, you’re yelling now too, aren’t you?_

There was no pleasing him.

Aveline wasn’t sure why she tried, except for that thought, shared between her and Hawke.

_Family._

She’d been an only child. She couldn’t really remember her mother, and her father had died long enough ago to be mostly soft ache in her chest. Wesley…

Her jaw tightened. _Too soon._

But this. The Hawkes. It was… nice. Hands to meet hers, when she reached out. Unexpected trust.

But her new little brother was a such a selfish tit, sometimes.


	4. D is for Duty

The Kirkwall Guard didn't accept Fereldans.

That was bollocks.

Ewald would have let her in. He'd seemed a reasonable man. But he'd been on his way out, even when they met him at the Gallows. Apparently sick of answering to templars and nobles, rather than just getting to do his job.

Aveline could sympathize, but she still wanted to hunt him down and drag him back. Captain Jeven was obviously more politician than protector.

So she planted herself outside his office and waited.

He wasn't big enough to physically move her.

Too worried about appearances to attempt to order her out... what would he say if she didn't listen? She could see the worry when he blinked at her, a soft sigh every morning as he came to work and she was already there.

She stayed until he left.

For over a sennight.

He attempted to sleep the night in his office, to wear her down.

As if she hadn't done a forced march or two in her time. She knew not to lock her knees.

He brought her tea the next morning. Too many people had seen her, now. Been impressed by shoulders and stamina and the fact that she'd kept her mouth shut the whole time.

She had her armour by the end of the week.

It was good to have work again. A place to put her feet.

To be more than just a decoration against the wall.

Shields weren't meant just to be seen; they were supposed to be used.


	5. E is for Entropy

It was unsettling, learning to fight with the Hawkes. Carver, of course, was much like many other brash young men, rushing forward and swinging hard. Better than most, truthfully, but certainly familiar in style. 

His sister, however. 

Normal sword training did not include how to fight with mages. 

_Probably do us all some good if it did._

From what little she'd seen of Bethany before she died, the two sisters had had very different skills. Bethany had called fire and ice, a bright blaze of destruction and power. Easily seen, easily tracked, offensive and deadly. 

Oddly enough, Wesley had seemed more comfortable next to the youngest Hawke than Adelaide, who lifted her gaze and bit her lip and shifted her staff right before things happened. 

Aveline was never completely sure what she was up to, until the bandits' backup sent their next volley of arrows directly into their allies' backs, or the swordsman rushing forward tripped over his own feet and fell at hers, or sudden warmth tingled up her spine and her next swing was easier, lighter, _faster_. 

Her aching body healed itself, sometimes, right before it started to slow her down. 

And if someone got too close, Hawke actually knew how to use that staff, shifting her weight and putting her entire body behind a swing that blocked a mace or moved a shield or hit hard enough to dent the side of a helmet against a head. Despite being short, her reach with the thick length of wood was better than most swords, after all. 

Staffwork was a good fit for her, even if she hadn't had ulterior motives for the choice in weaponry. 

If Aveline hadn't known better, she wouldn't have even recognized her as a mage, would have started to think she possessed good enough luck that her enemies mostly took themselves out. 

Daryn had more visible kills than she did. 

Not that that was anything to be ashamed of, as it was quite possible the mabari had more visible kills than any of them. Damn well trained, that dog. 

Followed orders better than Carver, even. 

Not that that was anything to brag about. 

But Hawke. She had a knack for seeing the entire fight, reinforcements and shifting bodies and weaknesses and strengths, sending a glyph or a nightmare to the weakest point to do the most damage, or the strongest point to slow them down, whichever the situation called for, whichever would keep her team safe. 

Aveline had respected men who had a poorer grasp of a battlefield than this one, lone, short, apostate with her big nose and warm laugh and slender hands. 

It was too bad she was a mage. She'd have been a splendid officer. 

But then she probably would've died at Ostagar, and none of them would've made it to Kirkwall, all of them lost in the Wilds. 

It was odd, to realize how easily one's path could twist beneath one's feet. 

Aveline was only alive today because of magic and a dragon, and the Witch of the Wilds. 

That was not a sentence she had ever expected to think. 

No telling what else was going to happen next, now that Hawke had set her eyes on Kirkwall. 


	6. F is for Foolish

"You have a job, Hawke." 

"I'm an indentured servant to a smuggler, Vallen." Aveline felt that, the use of her last name, so formal. So angry. Hawke seldom admitted to anger, no matter what it was she was feeling. Necessary self-control, she'd whispered once. No one wanted an emotional mage. "That is not a job. That's two steps above slavery." 

Carver snorted in agreement, obviously listening for all he was pretending to pay more attention to his sword, the soft sharp slide of the whetstone underlying all their words. He lifted his head just long enough to aim a scowl in Aveline's direction before focusing back on his weapon. 

_Obviously still thinks I should've recommended him to the Guard. And then he'd get himself killed rushing into a back alley by himself because he never listens, and I'd have to be the one to tell his sister and his mother. Thank you, but no._

"Look for a proper job, then. Gambling everything on a stranger's Expedition is foolhardy at best." 

"You may be on your way towards Captain, but all _we_ know is farming and killing." Hawke's voice was low and rough, almost a hiss, her eyes narrowed, the rest of her body stiff and still. "Neither of those are options in Kirkwall, unless we stick with Athenril and end up at the wrong end of either your guardsmen's swords, or the Coterie's poisoned daggers. Do you think that's a good idea? Because Daryn doesn't like that one." 

Carver let out a huff that was almost a laugh. Probably enjoyed hearing someone else compared to the mabari, for once. 

"And even if Athenril was good enough to keep us safe, which to be honest she probably is, eventually the Templars will decide she's not paying them enough to ignore her success, and I'll get locked up. At best." Her voice almost broke, the slick metallic sound in the background paused, Carver's head bent over his sword, his knuckles gone so tight Aveline could see the edge of white. "And so will mother and Carver, for 'harboring' a dangerous apostate. Saving them from that is worth the risk." 

_Nothing is worth this risk._

Aveline could not make herself defend a choice so likely to end in death. Not even a clean death, but one of taint and darkness deep beneath the ground. They'd all learned how that ended, back in Lothering. 

It was so easy to see, to picture those dark tendrils spreading beneath Carver's skin, or Hawke's. To imagine the feel of slick cold sweat along their skin, breath catching in chests gone tight with pain and poison. 

Aveline almost opened her mouth to keep arguing, _they're not like that, there are rules, they're not monsters, Wesley would never..._

But Wesley was dead. And the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall was very different from her counterparts back in Ferelden. Even Aveline knew that. 

All their options were bad ones. 

"If you need me, I will come." 

Hawke blinked, shoulders stiff even as she eased back on her heels. "What?" 

"It's stupid." _So stupid._ "But I would not want you to be without a shield. If it would help." _You need someone able to use the blade on you, if it comes to that._

"Don't you need to do Captain things?" Hawke's voice was lighter, now, her eyes softer as she almost smiled, her hands shifting upward in surprise. 

"Not quite yet. There's time." 

"Thank you." 

Aveline snorted. "Don't thank me for being as foolish as the rest of you." 

"I will thank you if I feel like it." Hawke had a ridiculous smile, all bright eyes and curved lips and the hovering worry that she was about to attack you with hugs. "Thank you, Aveline." 

"Hopefully we'll find you something better and I won't have to follow through." 

"Even I know you'll always follow through." Carver interrupted, though he still refused to get up and join the conversation properly. "Too serious for anyone's good, that's you." He lifted his head then, dark eyes almost not scowling. "More swords are always good." 

Aveline almost smiled. That was as close to a thank you from him as she was likely to get. "You're welcome." 


	7. G is for Gold

It wasn't worth it.

It was never worth it, and she'd known it, and she'd gone along with it anyways.

_And now Carver pays..._

Reaching the surface should have made things better. Should have given them all hope. But Hawke's eyes were too wide under the bright unexpected flare of sunlight, her face still frozen with shock.

Every step towards freedom was another step closer to Kirkwall.

And Leandra.

Aveline had watched the woman slowly start piecing herself back together this past year, after the loss of her youngest daughter. She wasn't sure if she could handle her son, as well.

Hawke, of course, would take all the blame.

Again.

Never mind that Carver insisted. Never mind it had been Carver's bloody idea in the first place, hearing about the Tethras expedition on a visit to the Rose.

Carver's fault.

No one's fault.

_Damn._

But what little could be salvaged of it all could be laid at Anders' feet. Healing them after they escaped the Thaig. Finding the Wardens. If Carver still survived, it was only because of him.

They owed him, and he refused to admit the debt. Refused to accept even simple gratitude, shrugging everyone away with a shift of those ridiculous feathers and a hint of blue in those brown eyes.

Aveline hated being indebted.

There was nothing any of them had as valuable as their lives. Not even a pile of dwarven gold, enough to buy back the Amell lifestyle and bribe the Templars for a lifetime or two, perhaps, but not enough for this.

For Carver.

For all of them.

No way to pay him back.

Ever.

At the very least, she could keep him safe.

_Like I kept Wesley safe? And Leandra's Bethany? And our Carver?_

In Kirkwall, at least, it was something she ought to be able to ... no. In Kirkwall it was something she _would_ do, no matter the cost. Keep the Guards out of Anders' way, make sure the Lowtown patrols kept an eye on all the Darktown entrances, even if there was no way she was going to be able to get her people below the city.

She could watch his back. Could pay him back as best she could, for as long as he let her.

Forever, if she had any say in the matter. Though really, it would probably be right up until the moment he figured it out and kicked up a fuss. _Damn stubborn apostate._

Until then, though. Until then ...

She would be his shield. Pay back the lives he'd saved with her own.


	8. H is for Heart

Hawke, despite her usually keen tactical mind and surprising skill with diplomacy, (at least in public), was sometimes an idiot.

Vael normally was not, even if he wasn’t particularly useful either, but grief made fools of all, and he was rushing headlong into disaster, dragging Hawke with him.

Or more like Hawke was dragging him. They were not good for each other. She too desperate not to worry about her brother to worry about what she did instead; he too desperate to avenge his family to worry about how he got there.

And yet. They both of them seemed a little less fragile in each other’s company. Which really wasn’t good news either, considering. Chantry Prince and Noble Apostate.

_Blithering simpletons._

Worst of all, no one else seemed to recognize the danger. Leandra was a romantic, and thought them handsome together, and hoped they’d ease each other’s hearts right into some impossible elopement.

Varric couldn’t stand the Vael boy.

_Boy._

_I think he’s older than I am, not that he looks it. Or acts it._

Varric refused to consider the likelihood that Hawke liked him too much to be sensible about what secrets he learned.

The other two mages avoided him, and thus didn’t seem to realize exactly how close he and Hawke were getting.

Isabela thought it delightful, and offered to get them drunk enough one of them would finally crack past all their attempts to be proper and respectable and snog already.

Fenris, now, she had no idea what Fenris thought of anyone, but he seemed surprisingly fond of Vael. Even managed an actual conversation, now and then.

Fenris didn't bother conversing with just anyone.

Or anyone at all, really.

So the fact that he saw something in Vael?

It ought to have made her feel better. But it didn't.

Petty of her, probably. But she couldn't seem to help it.

Nothing made her feel better, the tension between her shoulder-blades too tight to ever quite ease as she watched Hawke fling herself into each new confrontation, always more concerned for everyone _besides_ herself. And Vael followed, never once slowing her down.

Aveline was used to taking care of her people, of course, fellow soldiers and knights and guards, but Hawke was different.

Hawke and Leandra and faraway Carver and poor lost Bethany and her own beloved Wesley, all tangled together in one bitter knot in her throat, too thick to swallow. Wesley had never pushed himself into even more trouble than his job itself required. Her father had been scrupulously careful of his own well-being and honor. And would have been horrified at the idea of his _daughter_ thinking she had to protect him, rather than the other way 'round.

She didn't know what to do with this sudden messy extended family, a family that refused to _stay put,_ full of conflicting desires and wishes and a recurring lack of sense.

Aveline had no problems protecting her friends and family from anyone who came hunting. She just wasn’t quite sure how to protect them from themselves.


	9. I is for Interminable

She hated politics. Maneuvers and charm and sly implications and out-and-out lies hidden behind sharp hungry smiles. She mostly just stood firm and glared in response to it all, until people gave up dancing around her. Not entirely, of course, but it cut down on a lot of the bullshit. 

It was harder to avoid the _trappings_ of power at the Keep, however. Meetings and paperwork and formal armour with _gold_ in it, as if that wasn't the most useless metal for protection in existence, too heavy and too soft both. 

She refused that last one for anything after her investiture ceremony, despite the Seneschal's eloquent sniff of disdain; she never could quite get away from the first two. 

Never. 

_Ever._

It was enough to drive a woman to drink. After a day of listening to the Seneschal's voice get sharper, and watching the Knight-Commander's eyes grow chillier and the crease between Dumar's brows get deeper, all because not a single noble-born had apparently ever learnt when to _stop talking,_ Ewald and Jeven both made quite a bit more sense. 

Not that it excused Jeven of course, and she was more than pleased the man was out of power, but she could see why the last five Captains had come and gone so quickly. 

She was determined to be different. 

Even if her jaw ached most nights from keeping it shut in the face of ever escalating stupidity. 

It was worth it, every morning, to check the roster and see that list of names, _her people,_ who'd reached the morning safe and sound, who'd helped Kirkwall survive another day. 

The list was even growing. Slowly, of course; getting enough funding to properly equip and care for them was slower than cleaning tar off old roofing nails, (and wasn't that a job she was glad to never have again; there were some benefits to not having to take care of your own house, no matter how much she sometimes missed the home she'd had, back before the Blight), but every day was just a little bit better. 

She could wait. One step every day. They'd get there eventually. 

She had time. 


	10. J is for Judgment

Magistrate Vanard was trouble. Dismissing her cases as often as he could, finding against her with the slightest cause, encouraging the slow swell of whispered complaints against Hawke's rising status. 

Not that she begrudged Hawke's choice; Vanard had clearly been more interested in taking care of his family name than of his poor son, preventing him from getting caught, preventing him from getting help. But if the magistrates as a whole succumbed to Vanard's petty stratagems, the work her Guards did would be for nothing, her own successes at improving their lot thrown away in favor of his grudging revenge. 

Petty little child. No idea how he'd survived in power as long as he had. 

Or, rather, she had too many ideas, and they were alternately depressing and infuriating. 

_Politics._

Anyone whose family had survived Threnhold's fall from power tended to be too well entrenched to be moved _now._

Unfortunately. 

But Vanard was doing more than whispering about Hawke. Hawke could handle herself. It was everyone else Aveline was worried about. 

He'd even dismissed the case against the rapist who'd been preying on the alienage, and trying to overturn his decision wasn't a fight Aveline could win, wasn't a fight she'd manage to find a single ally willing to risk their neck over. Not when the only victims were elves, not against Magistrate Vanard, not with his temper, not with his connections, and the power to make his vengeance stick. 

Sometimes she hated people. 

She hated, even more, that none of her skills, forthright and powerful and honest as she prided herself on being, were enough to protect her guards, her friends, her family. 

She needed someone sharp, someone slippery, someone as able to be vicious, but who wouldn't turn it back on her people. Someone to smile as you bled out in front of them, who would turn away as if they had no idea they'd dealt a fatal wound. 

She needed Bran. 

But if he hadn't quietly pushed Vanard out of power yet in response to the Magistrate's endless twisting of the Seneschal's precious order, she wasn't sure how she'd convince him to act for the Guard. 

She'd run out of other options, however, and for all he was a consummate politician, the Seneschal was as reasonable a man as his position allowed. 

She hoped. 

When finally she asked for his aid, all he did was smile, small and sharp but not unkind, and lift one finger to tap against his mouth. "There may be a few things we can do, yes. There is something I'll need from you, however." 

"Of course." Aveline swallowed her sigh. She'd known it would cost, after all. She just hoped she could shoulder the price herself. 

His smile widened, for just a breath, something perilously close to laughter shining in his eyes. "We'll start with the next Council meeting. You'll need your formal armour, I'm afraid, if you wish to make a proper impression." 

She waited, and his eyebrows lifted. 

"That's it?" Aveline couldn't imagine the price would be so little. 

Bran snorted, and she had to swallow a sharp smile of her own, at such an indelicate sound being permitted to escape his mouth. He reminded her of Hawke, for just a moment. Perhaps he was a better man than she'd given him credit for, in fact. "Considering how quickly you stripped yourself of it last time, I was afraid you'd already melted it down and sold it to buy more practical shields." 

"Oh," Aveline sighed, "I should have, shouldn't I?" 

"You may wish so, after standing in it all morning. But yes, that should do it. You, formal armour, _every Council meeting._ Remind them what they'll lose, if they let him play his games." 

_Every ..._

As Guard Captain, she only went to the primary meeting at the first of each moon, not the weekly ones. 

She managed not to groan aloud, but something must have shown, because that unexpected smile flashed across his face again. "I look forward to your ... _endurance_ , Guard Captain." 

"Thank you, Seneschal." She mostly even managed to sound sincere. She was grateful for his help, after all. But, _every sennight._ "I can only hope it's up to the task." 

"Oh, I'm sure it is." His head tilted. "You are good for us, Guard Captain, with all your solid Ferelden sensibilities. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise." That hint of laughter was in his eyes again, gone so quickly she almost thought she'd imagined it. "Not even me." 

"As you wish." She nodded at him, feeling the first faint stirrings of hope. "I shall see you in the morning then." 

He waved her out, his head already turning as he shifted his attention to whatever task was next on his endless list. "In the morning." 

She conceded the last word to him, he'd earned it after all, and returned to her office across the Keep. 

She had more paperwork to do, if she was to be ready for the Council tomorrow. 


	11. K is Not for Killer (except when it needs to be)

The Seneschal required Order from his subordinates. Reasonably enough, as it was his job to keep Kirkwall afloat, even if the crown lay heavy on poor Dumar's head instead. The Knight-Commander valued Security more than mercy, clearly and again, that was quite appropriate to her rank and duties. 

Aveline did not think she could value either order or security above everything else. Almost. But not quite. 

She had always followed the rules, to the best of her ability. 

Had thought she always would. Before Hawke. 

Now, for all she was the Guard Captain, for all she was the face of the Law that tried to keep Kirkwall civilized, the enforcer who made it possible for Bran's Order and Meredith's Security, she found there were some things the Law could not protect, some values that could not be easily sorted and listed and defined in a Magistrate's Book of Codes. 

Not even an honest Magistrate. 

She was loath to call it Justice, after meeting Anders and his former-Spirit friend, but still. 

Sometimes it was important to do what was _right_ , not what was legal. 

Some things were more important than the rules. 

Like Hawke's laugh, when she settled into a game of cards in Varric's room, still free from the Gallow's shadows, or that shrug and half smile Fenris would call up when the slavers he'd helped Aveline track had no chance to be set free by their "friends" in the Magistrates' ranks, because they'd never made it that far. 

She'd worried about that one, more than usual, more than letting Isabela slide out of lock-up, more than conveniently ignoring Merrill's lightnings and Anders' desperate combination of rage and healing. More even than that first encounter with Hawke's subtly inflicted nightmares, when she'd wondered how she'd let herself fall so far from the righteous Templar's wife she'd thought herself to be, once upon a time. 

She'd preferred Athenril's straightforward dishonesty to Meeran's lawful murder, had made sure her guards had procedures and rules for dealing with the criminals they brought in, had repaired the cells to make sure they were clean and sturdy and warm enough in winter, had insisted that punishment never be allowed to slide into torture. 

Had insisted that a Guard's job could never be personal, not if they were to keep their backs strong and straight for as long as needed. 

She'd never wanted to be an executioner, for all she'd killed more than her fair share of desperate souls in combat. 

And yet. 

Vanard's claws had been blunted, thanks to Bran, but that didn't mean the Keep and Magistrates and Guards were all as honest as one would desire, were never simply too tired to follow through, if an easier way presented itself, that none of them had some hidden desperate secret that they needed gold to soothe, some hidden greed they'd found a way to indulge. 

Usually Hawke killed the slavers she found before it could ever be a question for Aveline to consider, her power flaring visibly for once, sharp edged and brittle and fatal, before she poured all she had left into her simple healing spells, before she gave away half her coin and all her rations, and escorted everyone left back to the Alienage, where at least there were roofs and walls to hide behind, and soft voices that knew the words no human could share, and Merrill's endless cups of tea. 

She always got viciously drunk those nights, not her usual soft laughing release from her cares, but something dark and heavy and bitter, until Fenris and Sebastian had to almost carry her home, ignoring her whispered apologies to the bodies she'd had to burn, the ones she hadn't been able to save, a few names in there of no one any of them knew, regrets even older than Kirkwall. 

It seemed cruel to Aveline, at first, to make Fenris care for Hawke's guilt, but it seemed to ease him somehow, to be able to soothe someone else and leave his own despair behind. Something he and Sebastian had in common, it seemed, for all Hawke tried so hard not to let herself lean on them. 

Except literally. 

It still surprised Aveline how damn _short_ Hawke was, how small she became when those dark eyes closed and her breath grew heavy. 

Sparing her, and Fenris, and every possible future victim ... that had to be right, didn't it? 

Aveline had seen too much pain in those slavers' camps, had smelled too much blood and scorched skin, had watched the ringleaders slip away, again and again, easily enough, _their only victims were elves, after all._

Sometimes she hated humanity. 

Sometimes she had to let the rules go. 

Sometimes it was worth it, worth stepping outside the place she was trying to make for herself, worth something else, something _more._

Was she letting them go for Bran's Order, or Meredith's Security, or her own brief fleeting desire for some sort of freedom? To be on the _right_ side, at least once? Or was it just to see Hawke smile again, to see the way even Fenris could relax sometimes, dark brows eased as he slid an unexpected joke into the middle of a conversation, so dry you almost missed it? 

Did it matter? 

The answer, whatever it was, wouldn't change her mind. 

Wouldn't stop her from doing it again, next time. 

And the time after that. 

There were, unfortunately, always more slavers. 


	12. L is for Luck

Aveline didn't believe in luck. Or fate, or destiny, or any of a myriad excuses people made to try and explain away their lives. 

If you wanted something, you had to work for it. 

Work _at_ it, and keep working, even when you couldn't remember what you were working for anymore. 

_One step in front of the other._

But she suddenly couldn't remember which path she was on, where she was supposed to go, and it was all because of Guardsman Hendyr's smile. 

She was his superior officer. She couldn't take advantage. 

Not that he would let her. 

But it still felt intrusive, the way she thought of him, different than anyone else she'd ever met. 

Different than how she'd felt for Wesley, certainly, even if she could tell it came from the same deep well of her heart. 

And wasn't that a ridiculous turn of thought. As if poetry would solve any of her problems. 

As if there _was_ a solution to her problems. She was Guard Captain, he was her Guardsman. That's all there was to it. 

That's all there ever could be to it. 

Which hurt, not quite as sharp as a broken heart, but near to it, hot and cold in turns, an echo beneath her heartbeat. 

Even so, she could not but think herself lucky, to have found a world that had him in it. 


	13. M is for Melancholy

It was Wesley who changed her mind. 

Well. 

It started with Hawke. 

So many things in Aveline's life started with Hawke. 

_Or ended with her._

That wasn't a fair thought. Hawke was, in many ways, the most heroic person Aveline had ever met. Always offering a helping hand, no matter the risks. Aveline had come to understand Carver's frustration a bit better, over the years. Hawke _refused_ to keep herself safe and hidden, ignored most sensible precautions, as if daring the Templars to find her, to prove her false. 

Aveline had overheard Sebastian asking her why once, soft and plaintive, and it had tempted her to think more kindly of him, that he was so concerned for Hawke, rather than his own troubles with Chantry and kin. 

"It would prove them right, wouldn't it?" Hawke had managed that half smile of hers, as if it was an easy question, an easier answer. She lied, of course. Hawke was surprisingly good at that, when she had to be, considering how much she valued her integrity. "If I hid myself away, when I didn't have to. If I let someone else be hurt, when I could save them, just because I was afraid." 

She'd turned away then, eyes closing on the one fear she never had faced, and it was only Aveline who saw the way Sebastian went still and pale as he drew in one short breath, an echo of the same terrible mix of regret and thwarted desire. 

But then they'd both blinked, and hidden their grief back somewhere deep inside, and pretended to be friends again. 

Aveline could never decide if she wished they'd never met, or if they'd take that final step and admit what they meant to each other. They'd gone well past the point she'd feared when she'd first seen them together, right after the Expedition. No use moving backwards. No way to do so even if they'd wanted to, in her experience, for all she might have wished it as an option. 

But it wasn't. Clearly. 

And yet there they stood, stuck, neither of them thinking it was their place to offer a hand, to pull the other out of the muck. 

They needed to _move_. Even if it meant they moved together, no matter how many misgivings Aveline had about the matter. 

It couldn't be worse than all that pining, could it? 

Only it could, of course, when he finally had to leave Kirkwall behind, or when the Templars demanded more than Hawke could give, and her hard won half-freedom disappeared. 

_Wouldn't it be worth it though, for as long as they had it?_

She had never once regretted Wesley, not even for how he'd died, not even for the blood that would never completely wash away, stained dark beneath her fingers, where only she could see it. 

For all she could not sympathize with Sebastian, tangled up between his faith and his family, refusing to cut the final ties to either and make a choice, it was clear he would always be loyal to _Hawke._

Or as loyal as the world allowed. 

It was odd. Aveline had never thought herself particularly insightful in matters of the heart, (Wesley had had to propose _twice_ before she'd realized that was what he was doing), and yet no one else seemed to recognize Sebastian's longing, no one else seemed to think Hawke more than infatuated, her fondness something simple they could tease her about over her ale, now and then, when Vael wasn't there. 

Or occasionally when he was. They none of them bothered with tact, after all. 

No one else ever noticed the sharp wince Hawke hid before she laughed and called for another round. 

Had none of them ever let themselves fall in love? 

Or was she the only one? 

Was she the only one who knew what they seemed poised to throw away in the name of some arbitrary sense of honor? 

There were more important things in life than _pride_. 

It was all almost as ridiculous as some of the more obscure oaths in the Chevaliers' Code her father had made her memorize, a Code that clearly valued appearance of nobility over actually _helping_ the people who needed help. 

She had not been the best of knights, in that respect. 

It served her well in the Guard, however, and she thought, perhaps, Hawke and Vael both needed a good dose of pragmatism to get them through ... well, whatever it was they thought they were doing. 

She wasn't quite sure how to gift it to them, however. Her usual method of smacking recalcitrant trainees' heads together seemed unlikely to work. 

Tempting though. 

She'd been considering it, as she drank her tea and looked over the roster for the next moon one last time, and still hadn't managed any sort of decision, or even a consideration that might lead to one, before she went to sleep. 

Wesley had always had a good ear for a problem. She wasn't really surprised to see him in her dreams that night, as if she'd called him to her, to ease her worries. 

Instead of something soothing, he glared at her, and shook his head. 

"You're smarter than this." 

It hurt, to have her own imaginings begrudge her some sweetness. 

Hurt enough she wasn't sure how to answer, and turned away, wondering if she could will herself awake. 

_I get plenty of abuse from the nobles in real life, I don't need to do it to myself._

_Especially not if it seems to be from him._

"Aveline." She stopped, and everything eased, because there, that almost forgotten voice, that mix of exasperation and love and just the barest bit of humor. "You know you can't just tell someone they're being stupid. You have to lead by example. Something you seem to be afraid to do." 

She shook her head, ignoring the unexpected hot prick of tears behind her eyes. 

"You are." He was standing in front of her now, his forehead pressed to hers, and she sighed at the ache of it, familiar and impossible and already starting to fade. "You were never a coward. Don't start now." 

She woke, and no matter how hard she tried to hold it close, the familiar tones of his voice started to fade into the darkness around her, and she had to close her eyes to stop herself from reaching out for someone who would never be there again. 

Or perhaps for someone who could be, if she'd just ask? 

She sat up, but didn't move any further, listened to herself breathe, the uneven rhythm of it easing as time passed. 

Wesley would never begrudge her her happiness. 

Neither would Donnic, who was more than responsible enough to tell her if he did not wish to be involved with someone in the Guard. More than responsible enough to keep such things separate, if he was willing. 

Was she the one who was afraid she could not guard both her duty and her heart? 

Would she become as lost as Hawke and Vael, if she shied away from the attempt? 

There were more important things in life than pride. 

Even hers. 

Even if she had no idea what she was going to say. Or do. Maybe a gift? Something to do the words for her? 

Or was that more cowardice, avoiding a confrontation she didn't know how to win? Because it wasn't a confrontation or a competition. It wasn't like a fight. She could not just stand still and solid and wait for everything else to crash over her. 

She groaned, and fell back into bed, rolling over and pulling the pillow over her head. 

She quite understood the appeal of avoidance. 

And she'd let herself indulge. 

Just for a little while. 

But then she'd have to make a choice. Take her step. _One step after another._

One short rest. The world would be there waiting, when she opened her eyes. 


	14. N is for Names

Rather than settling down with her tea or wine after dinner, Hawke wandered out to the kitchen with Orana. Apparently she'd been trying to improve her cooking, and claimed to have contributed more to the mess than the food, so now she was helping to clean up. Aveline doubted she was as much in the way as all that; Orana ran a tight household, for all she disappeared into the shadows if you looked at her too closely, and she wasn't likely to put up with true incompetence. Hawke seemed rather unable to think herself good at anything beyond magery and fighting, however, no matter how many times she avoided a fight with a well placed word or a gentle touch. 

It was a problem Aveline never had figured out how to address. She had a bit of the same one, after all. So she let Hawke go, and followed Leandra to the study, where they shifted about and listened to the fire settle. It was quite comfortable, actually, despite the fact she had no idea what to say. A peaceful sort of interlude, as Leandra dug out what looked like an embroidery hoop, and let her fingers get to work. 

Aveline never had had much patience for fine needlework. Leatherwork, now, she was good at that. Didn't have any in a handy basket at the Estate, however, so instead she let her fingers trail along the bookshelves, eyeing the eclectic assortment of titles, some recent finds of Hawke's or her mother's, a history book or two that she would bet had found their way here just for Vael, and some clearly generations old, the leather dark and worn, the gilt of the words faded enough the titles were difficult to decipher. 

_Surprised so much survived the slavers._

She reached the edge of a shelf, and turned, her eye catching on the bold red lines of the Amell crest. "You never took back your title, to go with your estate." 

"No. No I didn't." Leandra smiled, small and sad and sweet, and she blinked just once, slowly. "Can't go back, however hard I tried." 

"Is that what you were doing?" Aveline swallowed. She hadn't meant to ask that. But those first two years, after Bethany, then Carver, she'd watched Hawke drive herself too hard, too far, lost in some terrible dark maze, and Leandra had led the way, always deeper in, never out. 

"It was. I tried to apologize to Adelaide, you know." Leandra's head bowed over her work, her fingers still and pale. "She wouldn't let me." 

Aveline felt her shoulders ease. "No, she wouldn't." 

Leandra huffed out a breath, a softer echo of her daughter's more usual snort. "Too stubborn by half, that girl." 

"At least." Aveline let herself smile. "If half the stories of Malcolm I've heard are true, she rather got it from both of you, didn't she?" 

Leandra laughed, and it lit up her face, her voice, _the entire room, goodness, now I know where Hawke got that, too._ "Ah, our poor children never had a chance, it's true." Her smile faded, and the sorrow hiding there made Aveline's throat burn. "And now poor Adelaide shoulders all of it herself, and refuses to let it go." She paused, and turned to the fire, her face too still and her eyes too dark, even as her mouth eased into something that was almost a smile again. "It was Bethany who loved to cook, and Carver who made the lightest, sweetest bread. Had that feel for pastry, just the right touch for the dough. Never knew anyone who could teach that." 

Aveline's eyes closed, as she avoided thinking too much about Hawke in the kitchen, or the fact that she'd known Leandra over four years, and only now discovered what her laughter sounded like. 

_So much sorrow, that she's afraid to reach for joy._

Hawke's endless awkward dance with Vael made rather too much sense, when Aveline thought about it like that. Especially as she would be even more desperate not to add to his sorrow than to avoid her own. 

"Would you do it again, if you knew?" Aveline hadn't thought she'd ask that either, but apparently she'd had too much wine at dinner, or too much sorrow of her own, the past four years, to let it lie. "Choose to be a Hawke, rather than an Amell?" 

"In a heartbeat." Leandra lifted her head until she could meet Aveline's eyes, her own gaze firm and solid and sure. "No question." 

The catch in her throat this time was too complex for sorrow, too sharp for joy. 

_Is that what hope feels like?_

She'd forgotten, apparently, spent too long with her head down to notice. 

She bet Hawke had forgotten that one too. 

Aveline let her eyes drop, and moved to sit in the chair across from Leandra with a sigh. "You ever tell Hawke that?" 

The stillness across from her changed, something fragile trembling in the air between them. 

"No," Leandra whispered. "I don't think I have." 

"Well." Aveline rolled her head back and closed her eyes, taking one deep breath as she felt the warmth of the fire beside her dancing across her hand, down the side of her leg. "Mayhap it's time." 

She could feel the weight of Leandra's sigh, and smiled at the light note in her voice when she answered. "Thank you, Aveline." 

"That's what family's for, isn't it?" 

Leandra laughed again, the soft joy in the sound warming the entire room. "It is indeed." 


	15. O is for Onward

Donnic wouldn't presume to say anything, if he felt the same way. 

He clearly wouldn't say anything if he _didn't_ either. So it was up to her. To do. 

Something. 

But carefully. 

She'd never much minded gossip, for her own sake. Spent too long with it, after all, motherless girl-child, Orlesian in Ferelden, lady knight, _Fereldan_ in Kirkwall _._ It had always been there. 

Not that Orlesian would have been much better in Kirkwall, but it was telling, wasn't it, that she was too much the rustic for the Marches, and too much the invader in what had been her first real home. 

People. Always determined to find the differences, always determined to push, and shove, and tally up the change between them. 

Mostly she didn't mind. People, after all. Couldn't do much of anything about what was in someone else's head. 

And yet, this time ... this time it would be whispers behind _his_ back as well, if she did this wrong, and she couldn't bear the thought of such a thing. Not on her watch. 

Not when it was her fault. 

But she never had known how to do this, how to ... _express_ her interest, rather than reply to someone else's. 

Not that she was good at that either, but at least she'd had a little practice. She'd figured Wesley out. 

Eventually. 

She'd been twisting about her own thoughts for much too long, though, well past the point of considering and on to avoiding. She was being ridiculous. It was time to _act._ Time to stand and take the consequences. No more dodging. 

She couldn't imagine living a life like Hawke and Vael did, always moving, always turning, never landing. She needed her feet on the ground. 

And she wanted Donnic's there beside her. 

There, that was an easy enough thought, wasn't it? 

Only. 

It wasn't, not easy in the least. 

Nothing worth it ever was. 

He was worth it. 

She was worth it. 

That was an odd thought, to realize she hadn't been sure of that, for awhile. 

_Isabela._

She snorted softly. Good for something, that pirate, if only for provoking one's self esteem in self-defense. 

Perhaps she could forward that sort of lesson along? 

Perhaps Aveline could make a move, at last, if it wasn't just for herself? 

Aveline felt the slightest smile ease the tension in her jaw, and went to rinse out her mug and get the rest of her armour on before she left her quarters for her office. 

She'd ask Hawke for help. 

See if it helped the both of them, to finally take a step. 

Had to keep moving, after all. Something they both seem to have forgotten, for a bit. 

Time to remember. 


	16. P is for Pause

He was so gentle. Soft lips, soft breath against her skin, soft whispers just barely loud enough to catch against her hearing. 

But never hesitant. Sure, always so sure, of himself. 

Of her, now that they'd started. He had the slightest half a smile when he watched her now, as if he'd found the final piece of a puzzle, and it had all slid perfectly into place. 

She was enjoying perfect. 

It wasn't the sort of thing that was likely to last, after all. 

Only perhaps it would. 

At least where he was concerned. 

He'd kissed her, that first time in her office, everything so soft, and almost still, soft lips, the soft brush of his hair beneath her fingers, the soft press of his fingers tangled with hers when that first connection faded enough they'd had to breathe, had taken a small half-step apart. 

She'd had to laugh, at last, when he stepped close again, his nose brushing against her temple, his hum of pleasure soft and warm between them. 

_Perfect._

Messy and embarrassing and stumbling around each other, still, and figuring out how to do her job, and his, and step away, she'd never been good at stepping away from work, after all, and he was almost as bad, and yet ... 

And yet. 

Even Brennan's awkwardly swallowed laughter when she watched them attempt to be oh so carefully formal during shift, still finding their balance, still adjusting their stance, even that wasn't enough to make her blush. Not anymore. 

Or not too much, anyways. Not enough to mind. 

She didn't mind much of anything, right about now. She could deal with anything. 

No. That wasn't right. 

_We can deal with anything._


	17. Q is for Questioning

She couldn't remember the last time she'd had such a pleasant evening. She'd made herself leave work, _let my people do their jobs,_ and had gotten a delicious couple of skewers of something (she probably didn't want to know what) from her favorite vendor just inside the highest market hex in Lowtown, the one with the broadest range of trinkets and gear, one of the few places in Kirkwall that consistently served both High and Low. 

They had a terrible time with smugglers and fences and pickpockets, of course, with the flourishingly stupid combination of raiders up from the docks and nobles down from the heights, but she moved slowly enough they could all get out of her way tonight, so she wouldn't have to see them and do something about it. 

One night off wasn't too much to ask for, right? 

It would be nicer with Donnic, of course, but there was time for that. 

Some other day. 

No hurry at all. 

It was lovely, just walking along, no particular need in mind, enjoying the way the light turned thick and gold as the sun started to sink, highlighting the edges of the wares for sale. 

Made everything look like it might actually be worth what they were charging. 

She felt her lips twitch, and smoothed her expression. No reason to scare the Marchers into thinking their Fereldan Captain was losing it in the markets. That was a complication she didn't need. 

She saw a familiar glint of white and gold stopped at the stall at the end of the row, and was tempted, for a moment, to just step back the way she'd come. 

But no. She'd decided to move forward. That meant for this, too. 

"Good evening, Sebastian." 

"Why, hello Aveline, what a pleasant surprise." Despite said obvious surprise, his smile was honest, and she felt a twinge of guilt for her almost avoidance. He was good at that. Frustratingly obtuse one moment, disarmingly kind the next. 

There was the barest pause, a shift of weight so slight she almost missed it, a glint as his eyes shifted, looking beside and behind her before his attention settled back on her directly. "Not on patrol, even? It's unusual to see you about without your Captain's armour." 

She shrugged. It did feel odd, her shoulders too light, just simple leather, no plate keeping her in place. "It happens, I suppose." 

His smile twitched, just a little, a hint of humour that he managed to keep out of his voice. "Not too terribly often. I'm not sure I can recall the last time I saw you walking freely, rather than on duty." 

"Nor I, you." 

He blinked. 

"By yourself, I mean." She lifted her chin. She'd gone too far already, _no going backwards._ "Not with Hawke." 

He really had a surprising amount of control over his expression, considering how audibly delighted he could be about wandering around the muck on some of Hawke's more _questionable_ errands; his face didn't shift at all in response to her words, not for a moment, and then he managed to lift his eyebrows, half question, half demurral. 

There was a new tension to his stance though. He was preparing for an attack. 

She closed her eyes, and swallowed a sigh. She deserved that. 

He didn't. 

"She enjoys your company, Sebastian, I meant no offense." 

She opened her eyes and watched his shoulders ease, witnessed a half smile twitch for just an instant at the edge of his lips. "I believe she is attempting a new recipe with Orana, and didn't wish for witnesses." 

"Ah." 

His smile settled, easing but not disappearing. "And I couldn't very well go shopping for her if she was following along, now could I?" 

"For?" Aveline paused, counted days in her head. _No, don't think I've forgotten anything?_

"The Viscount personally invited her to a reception at the Keep next sennight." It was Sebastian's turn for a delicate pause. 

Aveline swallowed the inclination to grin too widely. "Trifle nervous, is she?" 

He shrugged, a slight, almost graceful, shift of his shoulders. 

_Archers._

Or perhaps that was the fault of noble manners, born and bred, rather than something one attempted to learn later, as she and Hawke kept discovering. 

"And you think," Aveline took a proper look at the stall where they'd been standing the last little while, "gloves might help with that?" 

The shrug was a bit less graceful this time, a hint of self-doubt. "She lost half of her favorite pair, and these," a flick of his fingers drew her attention to a white silk pair, the fabric so fine as to be almost translucent, dark blue embroidery trailing up along the outside seam, an abstract curve of rich thread that almost looked like feathers, "have her favourite colour." 

"Of course they do." _Probably cost more than her dress, too._ Aveline considered rolling her eyes, but that would just wound the poor besotted fool of a man, and it wasn't as if she had done any better with her own infatuation. "You don't think she should wear something in the Amell colors, considering?" 

"She never wears red." He shook his head, another flick of his fingers to push the idea away. "Reminds her too much of Bethany." 

"Ah," Aveline couldn't swallow, sharp heat and a faded memory, soft waves of dark hair catching in a knot of red fabric. "I'd forgotten. You never even met her, and I ..." 

"Bethany wasn't the only loss that day, Aveline." 

She met his eyes, and her throat eased. She had to give him credit for that, for knowing how to sit with another person's grief, for all his own had almost driven him mad. "But you remembered. You weren't even there, and you knew." 

He ducked his head, and he was about to dismiss it, she knew, murmur how it wasn't anything, wasn't important, that _he_ wasn't important. All his arrogance deserting him, right when he needed it. 

"No, Sebastian." 

His head jerked back up, mouth tight as if he'd swallowed some hasty response. 

"Don't keep turning away. You knew. You know. You know _her._ " Aveline took a breath. She didn't know how to say this. But it was important, they were important. "You can't ... " She shook her head again. "The both of you. You have to move forward some day." 

He went so very still, and his face, she couldn't tell what he was thinking, what he felt, could only wonder, as the sun highlighted the solid line of shoulders if, like so many archers, he'd learned his skills while hunting, had learned to wait until the forest forgot he was there, before he made his move. 

_Learned to wait for a sign._

It was endless, that moment of stillness, so still the market itself seemed far away, the people walking only shadows. Until, at last, he blinked, and nodded, and turned and walked away, one soft whisper the only warning before he was gone. 

"Thank you, Aveline." 

_Almost waited too long when he never saw one he recognized._


	18. R is for Ridiculous

"I didn't think he had it in him." Isabela hummed into her ale, eyes sharp and smiling as she watched Hawke and Sebastian, tucked close together by the fire, ignoring the game of Wicked Grace everyone else was playing. 

Not that anyone else was playing with any particular drive or focus, more interested in their drinks and their own shifting conversations, no real bets to make it interesting. 

Which was rather a relief; sometimes they put the _strangest_ things into the pot, and it was hard to stop them from escalating past any point of sense. 

Not that this group had much sense to start with. 

"Who, what?" Merrill blinked. 

Isabela put her tankard down, her smile growing, wide and crooked. "Or perhaps I never thought she'd have him in her?" 

Varric groaned, though his supposed distress wasn't enough to make a single finger twitch out of line as he shuffled the cards. "That's terrible, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." 

"It was rather obvious even for you _lethallan._ I didn't even have to think about it to figure out what you meant." Merrill sounded surprisingly like a disappointed teacher chiding a lazy student, at that. . 

"Sometimes you have to be obvious! Or people will pretend they don't know what you're talking about, even when _clearly they do,_ and it would be better for everyone if they just admitted it." 

"So you know what people should know better than they do?" Aveline asked, feeling her eyebrows lift in emphasis. 

"Of course I do. It's all that watching the horizon out at sea." Isabela leaned back in her chair, the picture of innocent comfort. "I have a good eye." 

"You're good at almost everything, it's quite impressive." 

_Only Merrill could say something like that and be completely sincere._

"Shush, kitten, don't let my boasting fool you. I'm not nearly as good as I say I am." 

"But if I follow your advice, then I shouldn't believe what you just said, and then you must be even better than you say you are?" Merrill's voice lifted at the end, clearly delighted by her own logic. 

Aveline felt her lips twitch, and heard even Fenris snorting in appreciation, right before Isabela's laugh broke out, loud enough Hawke and Sebastian managed to pull themselves away from each other long enough to glance over at the rest of them. 

"Oh, how can I possibly say no to that conclusion? Thank you, kitten." 

Merrill smiled, wide and sparkling, and ducked her head to take another sip of her own drink. 

"Besides," Isabela drawled, eyes shifting to Aveline for just a moment, "it's not like the rest of you are any good at your own lives, you can't blame me for thinking you could use a nudge or two, now can you?" 

Aveline pretended she couldn't feel the flush of heat across her cheeks. 

It had all worked out, after all. 

Eventually. 

No thanks to Isabela, though. 

Which thought was enough to calm Aveline's blush, and she shook her head. "Going to be responsible for everyone now, are you?" 

"Who wants responsible?" Isabela snorted. "Happy and well-laid, that's the goal." 

The blush came flaming back to life, and Aveline shook her head and conceded, taking a rather too large swallow of her own drink. 

Varric chuckled, and dealt the cards again. 


	19. S is for Sorrow

There was too much blood, and not enough, and even the stench of the sewers couldn't cover the smell of fresh bodies. 

Or completely hide the lack of it. 

Leandra didn't smell right, the pieces of others' bodies all too well preserved by magic to settle properly into death. 

Just another horror, on top of all the rest. 

It was all Aveline's fault, too, for not taking Emeric seriously enough when her first leads had faded away, disappearing into the morass of Kirkwall's criminal activity. For assuming their mysterious killer had floated away on the tide like so many did when there were no new signs of him for so long. 

It was _her job_ , and she'd failed, and Leandra ... 

And now Hawke would pay, most of all. 

As if she didn't take the weight of the city on her shoulders too much already. 

_My fault._

Her guilt helped no one, however, so she strangled it back, ignored it, denied it, just for a little while. Just long enough to send for the wagons to pick up the bodies. 

Then she'd walk Hawke back to the Estate, and help her wash off the blood. 

That at least she knew how to do. 

That at least she could do without making things even worse. 

That she could do to distract Hawke, so she wouldn't think about what was happening to the bodies. 

The guard would give most of them over to a pauper's pyre, the unnamed and mostly ungrieved, who only got a Sister to murmur over their ashes before they were gone. 

Except for one. 

Sebastian was going with the wagons, had promised he'd make the arrangements with the Chantry to pick up that last bo- 

He'd take care of Leandra, so Hawke wouldn't have to worry. 

That was something he knew how to do as well. 

They'd all seen too much of death. 

She hadn't realized there was something _worse_. 

She'd seen Hawke after Bethany. 

Had watched the Hawkes all grieve that first year, for their father, for Leandra, lost in Lowtown, even some for her Wesley, and always, always for Bethany. 

Again for Carver, down in the Deep, and worry had been a shadow they'd all had trouble hiding, even after word came that he'd survived the Wardens' mysterious Joining, but this. 

She'd never seen Hawke just ... _stop._

But if she needed to? 

_Then I can't._


	20. T is for Time

The first sennight or so Hawke retreated. She wasn't eating enough, wasn't practicing her staffwork, was only getting out of bed to wander through some half-done housework and sit by her fire before going back again. She'd permit visitors, but she clearly wasn't _attending_.

She'd close her eyes when Sebastian prayed, and the faintest of tremors hiding in her hands would ease, and even if she didn't care about the words, she was so clearly grateful for the voice that it hurt to watch the lines of her face go still.

Aveline left whenever Sebastian came, one hand resting on his shoulder before she slipped out the door, rather than intrude enough to see that face again.

 _Something_ happened between them, one of those days her doors were closed to anyone else, something drastic enough for Sebastian to be tense and pale, and Hawke turned even quieter.

But she came out, at last, if only to visit the Chantry, and take an evening stroll through Hightown every day or so.

She seemed more a spirit than a person; soft and changeable and with a vague unhealthy hint of green beneath her skin.

Except her hands, flushed almost red, gripping themselves tightly enough the lines of her knuckles stood out against the skin, too pale and white.

It was almost a fortnight before she'd let Sebastian offer his arm during those walks. Before she'd take it, and lift her gaze from the tips of her boots, and look around.

Yet another before she'd start sitting down to a proper dinner each night and eat; with company, even, rather than hiding by herself, managing a conversation of a sort. Soft and stilted, to begin with, but slowly easing back into something resembling normal.

Never quite the same, of course, but it would never be quite the same.

The important thing was somehow learning to live with that.

She'd manage.

Hawke was good at surviving.

It was a curse Aveline recognized, the one they both shared.

Always left standing.


	21. U is for Unforgivable

Aveline had failed.

Again.

Failed with Bethany, with Wesley, with Carver.

Ninette, Mharen.

_Leandra._

Failed the alienage, and her guard.

She never should have accepted the job, she couldn't do it, wasn't good enough.

_All the dead. So many._

Seamus, and Dumar. Her job to protect them, _her job._

More than just a job. Her duty. Their _right_ , to be protected.

They ought to have been safe.

Heads don't roll smoothly across a floor, bumping off noses and ears and chin, and how much worse it was when wearing a twist of an iron crown, and she would never forget that _wobble._

Never sleep soundly again.

Never deserve to.

She'd failed so thoroughly, failed the Viscount, and the nobles, and the merchants. Failed everyone. Failed _Kirkwall_.

But of course she was fine, nothing wrong with her besides exhaustion. Her hair smelled like smoke, and her legs ached down to the bone, and there was a knot between her shoulders tight and heavy enough to almost take her head with it, but she'd be fine. All she needed was a bath, a rest.

A new shield, Wesley's finally broken past repair from holding off a qunari blade.

_It never was mine. Always still his. I'm so sorry, Wesley. So sorry ..._

Sorry for everything.

Held on too long, to all the wrong things, and now. Now all she had left was regret.

Most especially that she couldn't pay the price herself.

_All those dead._

And Hawke.

Always Hawke, shouldering the weight of Kirkwall herself, stepping in front of the Maker-forsaken _Arishok_.

Hawke who paid.

Over and over and _over,_ and it wasn't fair.

It wasn't right.

She couldn't swallow the twist of nausea, fear slick and cold down her throat, churning in her stomach, wondering how much Hawke would pay.

If it was her fault that Hawke ...

Now, if they had reached an end, after everything, because she'd _failed._

Failed Hawke.

The only family she had left, and the one who'd paid the most for her every failure.

Her hands _looked_ clean, scrubbed pale and rough after helping Hawke home, after helping her stand in front of the Knight-Commander, _just a little longer Hawke, you can do it,_ but she knew they'd never be clean, more blood joining Wesley's, Leandra's, staining her fingers.

Her soul, if she had such a thing.

She'd never really worried about her soul, more concerned with the practical, with the _now,_ with the people beside her and the job she had to do, but she felt herself wonder.

Just a little.

If there was anything that would ever make up for the ways she'd stumbled.

Probably not.

It was a shame; she'd probably never see Wesley again.

Ah, well. Too late now. He deserved better anyways.

She sighed, and put her palms flat on her thighs to help push herself to her feet.

Enough wallowing.

She couldn't do anything here in the Estate. Merrill and Anders were pretending to get along well enough to help Hawke; Merrill had plenty of training in the mundane side of the work, even if she wasn't much of a magical Healer.

Fenris was helping Donnic and her guards sweep through town, smoothing over riots and cleaning up behind the last of the qunari. Varric was in Lowtown soothing the locals, rallying the first work-crews, presumably already tracking the rumours.

Isabela was ...

Aveline closed her eyes. No use thinking about that one.

Bodahn and Orana were cleaning up and keeping the Estate quiet; if they needed anything, Sebastian and Carver were here, waiting. Waiting in case Hawke woke up, or the Healers needed assistance. Waiting because they couldn't do anything else. But they had spare hands that could work while they waited, free to do any of a myriad errands that anyone could think up to distract them.

There wasn't anything Aveline could do besides pace along after them, boots too heavy and hands too empty.

She didn't even need to watch the door, in the unlikely event anyone was well enough to attempt it past the riots and the clean-up.

Sandal was remarkably effective at guarding the front door all on his own. He just stood there and ignored anyone who came by and then quietly started talking about _booms._

Aveline let out a sigh, almost a sob.

She couldn't afford to start that.

Not now.

Someone needed to take a look in at the Keep, see what the Seneschal needed, see what the Knight-Commander was doing.

And who else was left?

She had work to do.

Wouldn't change anything.

_Might stop it getting worse?_

She didn't think they'd survive worse.

It took effort not to wonder if they'd survived this.

_Hawke is good at surviving._

She'd stand again.

She had to.


	22. V is for Vigil

They neither of them could sleep. 

Not enough, anyways. 

Not that there was any amount that would be _enough._

As if there was some miraculous moment, when one had finally rested, finally slept a night through, when you could wake up and see a morning that wasn't still tinged red with the memory of blood and fire. 

Haunted with regret. 

Donnic wouldn't let her brood, though. 

Wouldn't let her just go back to work either. 

Somehow they ended up at the Chantry instead, near the end of midnight services, standing in the back, in the shadows by the doors. 

She hadn't been to a Chant without Hawke in ... years. 

Hadn't been to midnight service in longer than she could remember. 

Since before her father died? 

She closed her eyes, let her shoulder bump against Donnic's, and felt her breathing ease until it was in time with the Canticle's slow rhythm. 

_Erudition._

Not that sort of thing that soothed in the dark of the night, she would have thought, too abstract, too full of terrible human mistakes, and yet. 

It was a sympathetic sort of exercise, tonight. 

_We know it's dark right now, but it's been worse, and we survived. You survived. You can do it again._

_Maybe even better next time?_

She kept her eyes closed through the Priest's ending words, the faint lilt of a childhood in Orlais just enough to sweeten her voice, not enough to thicken it into something foreign. Kept them closed through the soft shuffle of people standing, and straightening themselves out, and their steps retreating across the flagstones in the entrance. 

It was warm and quiet when Donnic finally moved, stepping away from the wall. She opened her eyes, and took one half-step to follow, before realizing he was heading farther in rather than out. 

She followed anyways. 

He smiled at her over his shoulder, small and warm, and she felt herself smile back. 

It had been a long time since she'd smiled either, she realized, an ache building in her throat. 

She stopped in line with the edge of the last pew, but Donnic kept going, to the rows of candles, red and white, bathed in their flickering golden light. 

He turned back towards her again, further this time, reaching his hand out to hers. 

She almost backed away, had a sudden painful wrench somewhere in her chest as her weight shifted onto her heels. 

His head tilted, and the smile stayed steady as he waited. 

_I have no one to light a candle for._

_Not anymore._

_I didn't lose anyone._

_Not this time._

_Not really._

"Light a candle with me." 

She blinked, and swallowed, though it eased neither throat nor chest, nor even the sudden burning behind her eyes. 

He stepped closer, and his fingers found hers, and she wrapped them together, the rough edges of his callouses catching against hers, familiar and warm. 

"Why not?" 

"Why should I?" She shrugged, irritated by the light shift of fabric across her shoulders. 

His smile faded, though she could still see it somewhere in the shape of his eyes. "Why shouldn't you?" 

She managed to shake her head, though she didn't quite know what she was denying. "Others lost more, Donnic. I just ..." _failed them. Failed them all._

"It's not a contest." He leaned in closer, his breath warm against her cheek. "You're allowed to grieve, Aveline." 

She let her eyes close, felt the heat ease, felt the damp catch in her lashes. "Maybe. Not quite yet, though." 

"Alright." His lips brushed against her skin, fleeting and soft. "Help with mine, then?" He tugged gently at their clasped hands, leading her back towards the bank of candles. 

She smiled again. "Of course." 


	23. W is for Worry

They were commissioning a Maker-forsaken _statue_.

As if having to wash away Kirkwall's sins with the Arishok's blood was heroic.

As if Hawke almost dying, her insides practically scrambled like eggs, was an honor.

As if Kirkwall had learned a single solitary thing from it all, as if they'd seen the warning, and turned their city around.

But no.

No Viscount.

Templars standing Guard wherever they wished.

Resolutionists and Divine Agents and so many rumours ... and rather than do anything about any of it, they wished to immortalize it all in granite.

Because the slow creeping decay of their city around them was something to be _proud of_ , clearly.

At least they weren't putting it in the Keep's Court, thank the Maker for small mercies.

They were having a commemorative gala at the Keep for the announcement, however.

Hawke was going to _love_ that.

Guest of Honor, in view of the still barred doors to the Throne Room.

Oh yes.

This was going to be fun.

Be even worse when they had the _next_ party to celebrate the statue when it was done.

At least it would take a while?

_Granite._

Aveline snorted, and shook her head before pushing back from her desk.

She rolled her shoulders, feeling the flare of her nostrils as she released one short sharp breath. Almost time for shift change. She tried never to be locked up in her office then; needed her guards to see her, to know she was there for them, more tangible than just her name on the wall and her voice during inspections.

Mayhap she'd go see Hawke afterwards, see how she was doing. Someone would certainly have delivered the news by then, so at least Aveline would be spared that particular duty.

_The messenger probably had no idea what he was getting into, taking one of the Seneschal's heavy scrolls over to the Champion herself._

_Poor bugger._

Once upon a time, Hawke had a smile for any messenger, never blamed them for the news they were forced to carry.

But Hawke had changed.

She'd had to relearn how to fight.

After relearning how to stand and walk and keep down food and no more sliding down the bannisters with Sandal in the wee hours of the mornings.

Aveline had never thought that would happen.

She found herself missing it, now.

Hawke's stance was different now. Not a lot. Still effective, but slightly ... _off_. Just enough to disconcert, out of the corner of one's eyes.

Being disconcerted in the middle of a battle was generally a bad thing.

Luckily she was still confined to practice courts, a simple bare staff between her hands, and Aveline could afford a second glance while walking past on her way to the barracks or her office.

And sometimes a third, feeling the tension between her shoulders as she held in a frown.

Hawke didn't talk as much. Her lips went tight whenever she caught the edge of one of Kirkwall's interminable simmering arguments between the nobles at the Keep, as if she'd finally lost the knack for the words that had come so easily, before, soothing and listening and encouraging.

Gone now, hidden behind cool eyes.

Especially if one of those arguments spilled over into her path, and the people in it all looked over, sharp and hopeful, a bright and wordless _Champion_ shimmering in the air between them.

Hawke of a year ago would have smiled, and deflected the conversation, or perhaps promised to help with some aspect of it, until everyone wandered away, eased and chattering about inconsequentials.

The Champion of Kirkwall, however, just lifted her chin, and stared them down, until their voices dropped off, ragged and uncomfortable, and everyone was remembering how long it had taken to clean up the blood after the last time they let things go so poorly the Champion had to fix it for them.

She'd start to walk, while they were still caught up in the visions they'd given themselves, and they'd part unevenly before her, and she'd be gone, leaving a wake of tangled, quiet, confusion.

And every time the Knight-Commander blocked the latest noble machinations, tightening her grip around the Keep as well as the Gallows, the whispers would start again, just a little louder.

_Perhaps it would be worth the cost, to have someone on the Throne again?_

_Even her._

_Especially her._

Aveline couldn't decide if she agreed or not.

Couldn't seem to figure out if Hawke needed a kick back out into the world, or a safe harbor from it. She saw the same question echoed in Sebastian's face whenever they met, eloquent in the spread of his hands and the shift of his shoulders and the shadows in his eyes.

Even Varric couldn't seem to decide what to say on the subject, and Aveline was pained to find she missed Isabela, missed the sharp glint of her eyes, the warmth of her silences in the middle of the night, and her knack for always making Hawke smile.

Hawke needed to smile.

Hawke needed _something_.

This time Aveline didn't think just waiting for a moon or so would help.

It felt like time was their enemy now, building something dark and twisted just over the horizon, waiting to fall down from the mountains or wash up from the sea and tangle them all up within its reach.

As if they needed _more_ to go wrong.

Aveline hated to think what could be worse.

She was afraid she was going to find out though.

She was afraid that Hawke was too hard now to handle it, whatever it was; too brittle to bend again.

Next time she was hit too hard she might shatter, and they might not be able to put her together again.

Might not be able to put any of them together again, without Hawke to help.

Without the sound of Hawke's laughter, to remind them the sun would rise again.

_What have we been fighting for all these years, anyways?_

She was afraid she didn't know the answer.

She was afraid Hawke didn't even care to look for an answer, anymore.

She was afraid.


	24. X is for Xebec

Even Kirkwall could be beautiful. You couldn't count on it, couldn't go looking for it, or all you'd find was salt and soot and mud. But sometimes, just sometimes, if you were lucky, if you paused to take a breath and just let it all go, Kirkwall would forget to be ugly. 

Kirkwall could be lovely. 

It had been a long day, but not a bad one, and even the Seneschal's permanent frown had eased, just a bit, when he'd said good day and agreed to take a break and actually leave his office after luncheon. 

Aveline had done a walk through her city that afternoon, not all of it, of course, it was too big for that, but most of it, all the way from the Keep down through High and Low to the shores of the harbor. 

Now, at last, it was sunset on the docks, and a boat was caught in the trail of light crossing the shifting waves, a singular black shadow surrounded by brilliant fire. 

Even the wind was just right, so as to blow fresh salt air rather than carrying the smell of fish or tavern or beggars or rot. 

"Ship." 

"Hmm?" Hawke shifted, a soft questioning hum in her throat, and Aveline had to concentrate not to sigh with relief at the warmth of it, the _ease._ Hawke was leaning back, braced on her elbows, feet dangling off the end of the pier, not a hint of Champion-stiffness to her shoulders. 

"It's a ship, not a boat." Merrill nodded towards the sharp silhouette in the harbor. "Isabela said." Her voice caught, and she stopped, looking small and forlorn, her cheek resting against her knees, legs pulled up tight to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. 

Hawke rolled a bit to her side, bumping her shoulder against Merrill's side. "I miss her, too." 

There was an odd waiting quality to the stillness after that, but Aveline ignored the way they both rolled their eyes to look at her. She missed the pirate too, but it wouldn't help to say anything. She'd feel an urge to qualify it, to explain why she could miss the most annoying person she'd ever met, and that would defeat the whole point. The quiet stretched, and Aveline sighed, and shrugged her shoulders. 

Hawke snorted, almost a laugh, and Aveline felt the tension in her chest twist at the once familiar sound that had become so rare. 

She looked like herself today, for the first time in longer than Aveline felt like considering, eyes only half open, the slightest hint of a smile curving up just one side of her mouth, sprawled inelegantly across the weathered planks beneath them. 

Even the orange-red light seemed reminiscent of cozy evening before the fireplace, of the warmth of the change of seasons, rather than fire and blood and chaos. 

It was peaceful. The afternoon markets had closed, the evening tavern crawls not yet begun. The city hadn't started building the base for The Statue yet, either, preliminary work still hiding in the sculptor's studio somewhere, so they hadn't even had to avoid the central hex on their way here. And now it was just the three of them, sitting on the pier for the Amell warehouse. 

A quiet day, a quieter eve. 

Perhaps too quiet, in fact, with Sebastian serving at the Grand Cleric's side, Varric having failed to avoid the latest Merchant's Guild meeting, Fenris on a job with a caravan to Ostwick and back, Anders holed up in his clinic, refusing visitors, and Isabela ... wherever Isabela was. 

It wasn't the same, just the three of them. 

Nothing ever stayed the same, no matter how hard she'd tried to grip the good things close. 

This was good too, though. And involved much less ale than a similar evening with Isabela would have, and then much less chance for terrible decisions that would haunt them the next morning. 

That ought to be an improvement, right? 

"What's the difference then, Merrill?" Aveline rolled her shoulders. "What makes that a ship instead of a boat?" 

"A boat might get you somewhere, but only a ship can be a home along the way." Hawke interrupted. "Why she needed hers back so badly, I suppose." 

"I was going to say that the bigger ones with all the sails and masts and the sticky-out bits in front and back so they could get across the sea were the ships. But I like your answer better." Merrill leaned over this time, until she'd settled against Hawke's side. "I hope she found one." 

"So do I," Aveline answered, "just don't tell her I said that when she comes back." 

The knot in her chest eased as Hawke laughed, at last, brighter than the sunlight spilling across her skin. "Your secret's safe with us, Aveline." 

"I know." 

Aveline smiled as Merrill echoed her. "We're always safe with you, Hawke." 

Hawke winced though, and it was Aveline's turn to shift her weight until she was right against Hawke's other side, ready and willing to brace as needed. "She's right, you know." 

"Tell that to the Dumars." 

"So the rest of us don't matter to you?" 

Aveline winced at Merrill's words, or perhaps it was at the soft pained grunt Hawke made in response. 

"I know you've been counting the dead, over and over again," Aveline could feel the shift of Merrill's shrug against Hawke's other side, "but at some point, that stops you from counting the living." 

"That's not - " 

Aveline almost felt like laughing, or perhaps crying, at the bewildered note lifting Hawke's voice. 

"I should know, I'm much better at counting the dead." Merrill's voice was clear, and steady, and so sharp-edged with grief Aveline had to close her eyes. "But we'd none of us be here without you." 

"I can't." Hawke swallowed so hard Aveline could practically hear it. "I can't be responsible for that. For you. For all those lives." 

"But you are." It brought the knot back into her chest to say so, but Aveline seemed to have agreed with Merrill, to have decided on the _kick_ rather than the hiding. 

They needed Hawke back. Even if this might be a cruel way to find her. 

"Do you remember Alain? Lia? Ella?" Merrill asked. "Feynriel?" 

"Jansen and your miners." Aveline's voice felt hollow. "Keran and the other Templar recruits." 

"That dwarf running off to Rivain." Merrill kept going, bright and ruthless. "Or even that young boy who was working for Athenril?" 

"Pryce," Hawke whispered, barely louder than her breath. 

"Javaris. Those dwarven brothers, Merin and Emrys. Maecon and Brennan and half my guardsmen." Aveline didn't even attempt to keep her voice steady, let it crack with a roil of worry and gratitude and joy. "Including Donnic." 

"Orana and Bodahn and Sandal." Merrill's voice eased into silence. 

"Isabela," Aveline finished. "For all she does not know how to carry the weight of that debt." 

"She doesn't owe me anything." Hawke's voice was too thin, but at least she was using it, her eyes narrowed, though whether against the sun or their words it was hard to tell. 

"Of course she does." Aveline felt her mouth tighten into a frown. "An apology for the mess she made might be nice." 

"Wasn't just her mess," Hawke's voice was stronger this time, dry and bitter. "We helped." 

Aveline's shoulders stayed steady and still, used to carrying the weight of her guilt. "I know." 

"No one else is going to try and clean it up, are they?" Hawke sounded plaintive, almost sad, but there was something there that had been missing, that spark of life that made her _Hawke._

"They never do," Aveline sighed, a twitch of relief catching in her breath that made her want to smile. 

"Shit." Hawke collapsed back onto the pier, her body a dull thud against the wood. 

"Don't worry," Merrill stroked Hawke's hair, like a mother to a child, a smile curving her lips. "We'll help." 

"Promise?" Hawke turned her head enough to smile at the both of them, a soft curve lifting half her mouth. 

"Of course." 


	25. Y is for Yoked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _(aka yet another too long day)_

Sparring and weapons practice, in the dim grey late before dawn. Tea and breakfast as the first hints of orange and pink and pale blue began to streak across the sky.

Roll call.

Donnic's smile, as he nodded on his way out of the Keep, the last bright thing all morning.

Paperwork. Some reasonable, payroll and requisitions and recruitment. Going over yesterday's patrol logs, making sure she hadn't missed anything. Making arrangements to follow up as needed with unclear entries, or the ones that brushed up against politics, or hinted at the Coterie or Carta or one of the larger street gangs reaching further than usual.

Some unreasonable, but ever more necessary. Reports for the Seneschal, answering requests from the still uneasy Council trying to restore some semblance of _normal_.

The ever increasingly delicate correspondence with the Gallows, the need to keep the healers happy and the Knight Commander helpful without actually agreeing to let her take over even more of the Guards' usual duties as they rebuilt their numbers.

A disciplinary meeting for one of the younger guardsmen. An unfortunately common occurrence, considering how over-worked her people were, too long patrols and too much blood to be cleaned up, and never enough sleep before starting again. It was no wonder tempers frayed and judgment faltered, but it hurt anew, each and every time she saw proof of another stumble.

Another way she'd failed her people, and Kirkwall.

She wasn't quite caught up when she pushed away from her desk and stalked out of her office, but she wasn't going to get caught up that quickly, and she needed the break before she broke.

Before her judgment faltered, with no one there to rein her in as she reined in her guards.

At least not 'til Donnic got back.

Not that it ended up much of a break, unexpectedly meeting a Guildsman who needed to speak to her on her way to the dining hall for a snack.

At least his silk doublet inspired the lad working in the kitchens to swing by their table with hot tea before going through the rest of the hall.

No day was completely hopeless with fresh tea in it.

And he was even rather reasonable for a Merchant. They were both mostly pleased with themselves when he shook her hand and headed back to his Guild.

She would have almost asked him to stay longer, if it meant she could avoid dragging out the forsaken ceremonial armor again.

But the nobles were still skittish, and she wasn't about to be the one whose absence caused them to work themselves into a particularly stupid decision, so she did it anyways.

It wasn't too terrible, as meetings went.

Not even very long, for once.

No completely impossible expectations shoved her way, either.

One almost might think their luck was changing?

She was careful not to think that too loudly.

The Seneschal asked to see her after the Council meeting.

She followed him to his office, felt her eyebrows lift at the almost awkward jerk of his arm as he locked his door behind them, and had to swallow an abrupt grunt of worry at the sigh as he collapsed into his chair behind his desk.

His eyes were closed, and he just _sat,_ no sharp gestures or sharper commentary.

She knew how to stand and wait, but it was so odd, Bran _quiet._ She felt her feet shift beneath her, heard the whisper of her gold and steel as her armor adjusted around her body, opened her mouth to say something, and closed it again without managing to think of a thing.

"Sit, sit," Bran waved a hand in the general direction of the bench against the wall, his other hand lifted to his forehead, his face obscured beneath the shadows of his fingers.

So she sat, ignoring the creak of leather beneath her armor, the weight of ceremonial plate across her shoulders, and waited.

Bran had never been patient (or petty) enough to make her wait before today.

She felt a curl of nausea in the back of her throat, the only place left for worry to gather, the rest of her too sore and heavy to bear a single bit more.

At last he sighed, and dropped his hands, and rolled his head and shoulders, and opened his eyes to look at her directly.

She almost winced at the weight of his gaze, dark and almost dull, so unlike his usual painfully bright sarcasm.

"My apologies, Guard Captain."

She did blink at that, the slow pace of his apology more painful than she'd expected. "For what?"

His lips curled into an approximation of his usual smile, though it was too wistful by far. "For using you as a shield, of course."

She grunted. She made a good shield, she knew, though she never had expected the Seneschal to need one. "I can't imagine anyone willing to barge through your door on such a lovely afternoon would be stopped by my presence."

"Ah, but no one's knocked for all of five minutes, so clearly they are."

"That bad, is it, sir?"

He sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose with fine boned fingers, the shadows beneath his eyes dark above too pale cheeks. "Some days are worse than others."

She nodded, though of course he could not see her, and tried not to think too much about what it must be like, all the responsibilities of the Viscount's office and none of the privileges.

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Beyond doing your job, which you already do quite admirably, I do not think so." His hands dropped, and he snorted. "Thank you for the offer, though."

"Would you like an honor guard, perhaps?"

He blinked at her, and she had to swallow an urge to smile. She didn't think she'd ever surprised him before, in their years of working together. "It would be a nice quiet duty to break up the shifts," _something for the sick and healing, always too many of those,_ "and they can stand and look intimidating so the average grumbling noble might decide to grumble elsewhere?"

His eyes narrowed, as sharp and deadly an expression as she'd ever seen, as they neither of them mentioned that City Guards would be a visible contrast to the Templar uniforms that kept filling the Keep's halls to _assist as needed_.

As they neither of them mentioned how important they might be, later, if the Templars didn't willingly retreat back to the Gallows on their own.

"Thank you, Captain." He nodded, the twist of his lips something they could both pretend was a smile. "That is an excellent idea."

"Of course, sir." She nodded, stood. Took a moment to breathe, herself, before turning towards the door. "I'll get right on that."

So she did.

More paperwork, reworking schedules, but worth it. The Seneschal needed whatever help he could get.

She was still glad to escape out into the late afternoon sun for a patrol with Hawke.

It was good to walk her city again, even better to see Hawke walking too, head up and arms loose and even the occasional lifted eyebrow or tilted head signifying the return of her terrible sense of humor.

Aveline was never going to tell her she had missed it.

Though she couldn't quite help the smile that escaped at Hawke's unfortunate nug comment when confronted with Hubert's latest ridiculous hat.

She was glad she'd let herself as she turned away from Hubert's affronted expression, and saw the stretch of empty stone along the far wall that had been full of merchant's stalls less than a year ago.

All gone. A few moved, or fled, or combined with other businesses elsewhere, but most dead and burned.

Too many empty places in Kirkwall still.

It hurt, the notes of fear and relief mixed together in almost every greeting they received as they worked their way down stairs and cliffs and more stairs. Seeing the people she'd sworn to protect mourning those she'd failed. Watching them try to rebuild even as they wondered if she'd fail again.

She couldn't promise them she wouldn't, only that she'd _try,_ and they heard the difference, every single one of them.

Still some of them smiled, as if that was enough.

Still they asked, wide eyed and hopeful, hands reaching out to touch her, or Hawke, and she felt each fleeting moment of contact, hooks digging in somewhere beneath her heart.

By the time they came to rest, down by the docks yet again, there was no hidden beauty lurking anywhere, just the stink of fish and a view of the Twins absorbing the dull red light of sunset, the first few links of the harbor chains resting against their legs before disappearing beneath the water.

"City of Chains, indeed," Hawke murmured, the line of her shoulders stiff and tight.

She'd felt every one of those glances too.

"Are they chains if we chose them?" Hawke tilted her head, a slanted glance back at Aveline as she spoke. "Or are they something else, and the weight is too familiar to realize the difference, right away?"

Aveline shook her head. "The question isn't what they are, but how strong, and if we can pull them up, rather than them pulling us down."

Hawke snorted, a fleeting smile making the light catch in her eyes. "Always the practical one, aren't you, ignoring my musings completely."

"I like your musings." Aveline shrugged. "Sometimes. Doesn't mean I think there's any way to answer them."

"So you're not even going to try?" Hawke clicked her tongue, and started walking again, back into the City. "Never knew you to avoid a challenge."

"Don't think you need my answers. You need the questions."

"Ah, now who's musing philosophically rather than pragmatically?" Hawke leaned sideways, bumping her elbow against Aveline's side before straightening out again. "You take such good care of me, don't you?"

"Someone should. You certainly don't." Aveline smiled as Hawke rolled her eyes. "Poor Sebastian looks quite worn out, chasing after you and the Grand Cleric both."

Hawke laughed, the sound bright enough to rise all the way to the sunlit clouds themselves. "Poor Sebastian, is it now? Ah, how the years have changed us all."

"That's what years do, isn't it?"

Hawke sighed her agreement, but it was a more hopeful sound than either might have expected a moon ago.

Sometimes change could be good, couldn't it?

They had earned some good. At least for a little while.


	26. Z is for sweet dreams (zzzzzz)

Donnic knew all her nightmares. 

He knew when to wake her, instead, and she'd find herself pressed against him, fingers digging into shoulders or sides or arms, and she couldn't remember where she was, or when, but he'd kiss her, and then it didn't matter where or when because the _why_ was easy. 

She was there because Donnic, and the breadth of his hands when his fingers spread across her skin, hiding freckles and scars alike, and the way his eyes would open just enough to let the faintest gleam of light catch between his lashes as he looked at her. She was there for the moment when his eyes closed, and his lips found hers, and the grip of her hands eased, and neither memories or nightmares mattered compared to the shift of his muscles beneath her hands, and the way her breath parted above his skin, and the whisper of her name, or his, and the glorious ache and release of all they were, at last, together. 

He knew when to let her ride them out, instead, the stroke of his fingers through her hair, or down her back, or soft, so soft, up and down her arms, slowly bringing her out of them until her shoulders relaxed and her breath evened out, and sometimes she'd fall back asleep again without ever properly waking up, nothing but a vague memory of warmth lingering the next day when she opened her eyes. 

Sometimes she'd shiver, and her head would twist back and forth as she couldn't decide whether sleeping or waking was worse, and he'd murmur something soft and soothing and nonsensical until she squirmed, and then he'd chuckle, and they'd sit up, and she'd tell him what she remembered. 

She'd start out soft, and hesitant, trying to follow dream logic so as to explain why an endless open sky could be so terrible, and he'd hum or nudge her side if she slowed down too much, so she'd try again. 

And sometimes again and _again,_ until she'd managed to tell it all, and the worry disappeared with her words, and she knew she was awake, and her dreams couldn't hurt her. 

And mayhap they'd make tea, or curl up under the blankets, or find other ways to keep warm, and relax, and sometimes they'd give it up and wander off for an early practice, or breakfast. 

But sometimes they'd go back to sleep, sweet and easy. 

As if easy was normal. Was to be accepted. 

Was something that happened to her. Regularly, even. 

She never had a second bout of nightmares, on the nights Donnic was there to soothe or interrupt them. 

He never had nightmares at all, on the nights he slept beside her, though he said he'd used to. 

Said he knew she was guarding his back, even when he was asleep. 

Made her blush, that had, and he'd laughed, soft and low, and kissed the bloom of pink across each of her cheeks, and then the tip of her nose. 

She'd kissed him back, and more. 

She'd gone to sleep that night with whisker burns between her thighs. 

Amazing the things that could become commonplace, and yet never so common as to be unappreciated. 

Man had ridiculous hair of a morning, too. Always made her smile. 

He'd smile back, and tug on her braid, and she'd pretend to scowl, and he'd just smile wider, and she'd have to give it up and smile and kiss him good morning. 

A day was easier, if it started with kissing Donnic good morning. 

A life was easier, with loved ones in it. 

"Marry me." 

He almost spat out his tea, and she hadn't actually meant to say it, not yet, not like that, and she stubbed her own toe on the edge of her chair, and the blush across her face was of a certainty well past pink and possibly brighter than her hair, hot enough to make her dizzy. 

His cup clanked down against the saucer, and he leaned back, the loose ties of his unlaced sleeves trailing across the table-top, and _Maker bless,_ she was such an idiot. 

He laughed, oh such a laugh, breathless and helpless. "Couldn't even wait for me to get my trousers on, could you?" 

"Are trousers a part of getting engaged?" Aveline managed, hands trembling and heat caught in her chest. "I seem to recall taking them off, last time, truth be told." 

"Liable to be late, if we do that." The laughter gone, Donnic's voice had changed, low and rumbling. 

"Be even later, waiting for you to answer." She didn't remember moving, but she was closer now, just at the corner of the table, not quite close enough to touch. 

"Oh, was there a question in there?" His eyes were wide and clear, and his hand was reaching out for hers, and she wasn't sure who pulled, whose grip was tighter, but he was up on his feet, and they were of a height, eye to eye, smile to smile. "Perhaps you should try again, because I'm not sure what I'm supposed to answer." 

"Marry me," she whispered. 

"Still sounds more like an order than a question." 

"Never, for this." Her fingers twisted in his, her pulse heavy in her throat. "Only what you want, here." 

"Only what we want." He leaned closer, his forehead against hers, and her heart ached with it, so like and unlike her Wesley had been. 

Her Donnic. 

She kissed him again, slow and careful, a lick of heat and the smell of his tea and the catch of his breath as she drew back. 

"Yes," he breathed out, and she breathed it in, breathed him in, and laughed. 

_Yes._


End file.
